The Family Plan
The Family Plan
Wife-in-law
Wednesday, March 7, 2018
My husband was a serial monogamist before he met me. He was married and divorced three times in his twenties and then he just gave it all up at the age of twenty-eight. The day that I met him, I learned that he was already a grandfather. In fact, he was already a grandfather by the age of thirty-seven. I had recently lost a baby when we met, when Grant was forty-two, but I was soon to learn that my due date was the same as my future daughter-in-law’s due date. Her baby made it (as did the one before him and the one after) and I became a very young grandma, indeed.
I’m thinking that most people in my husband’s family should have been neutered at twelve but, if that was the case, I wouldn’t have the great relationship I enjoy with a grandson who is, frankly, about my age (I’m kidding. I’m a few years older than his biological parents but I’m happy to report that my grandson and I are very good friends).
At any rate, eight years ago, that grandson, who was then twenty-two, told me he was on the verge of marrying a twenty-three-year-old virgin. I told him I thought that was a colossal break with family tradition.
“You’re supposed to knock somebody up at sixteen, then get married and divorced within two years,” I said. “Why is she a virgin at twenty-three? Is she a religious girl or is she just not into being physical?”
Turns out, it was mostly the latter, but nobody knew for sure before the wedding so the show went on. It didn’t feel right to me from the get-go but who listens to a grandma? And what kind of a relationship maven am I? I didn’t hit the ball out of the park on my first go-around either.
Before the wedding, I got a call from my grandson. The conversation went like this:
“Hi Grams. There’s something I need to discuss with you.”
“Yes?” I said.
“My father wants me to invite my biological grandmother to the wedding. Is that a problem for you?”
“No,” I said. “It would be fun to meet her. And I’m sure your grandfather wouldn’t mind.”
He persisted, “I only met my biological grandmother once, when I was around two. All I remember about her is that she had bright red hair and a strange stripper’s name.”
“Well, sweetie,” I said, “she is a natural redhead and she has a strange stripper’s name…because she’s a stripper! Or was. She was a Las Vegas showgirl. I wish I could put that on my resume! From what I understand, she’s now a long-haul trucker for a construction company.”
“But she still has the stripper’s name, Grams. I don’t know what to call her.”
“When you say her name, do you envision her twirling her tassels?”
“Yes!”
“If that makes you feel uncomfortable, why don’t you ask her what else you can call her?” I suggested. “She does have a whole collection of names to choose from.”
In fact, she had so many aliases, lyrics from an old Beatles song came to mind: Her name was Magill, and she called herself Lil. But everyone knew her as Nancy.
“He asked, “Would you be offended if I called her ‘Grandma?’”
“I’m offended when you call me ‘Grandma!’” I nearly shouted. “I’m not old enough to be your grandma! Even your biological grandma isn’t old enough to be your grandma!”
To tell you the truth, I’m delighted to be called “Grandma.” A friend asked me many years ago if I minded grown-up kids calling me “Grandma” and I said, “Are you kidding? I love it! As long as they love me, they could call me me “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” and it would be all right with me. I’m just happy to have them in my life.”
So, if my grandson and his biological grandmother were going to converse at all, he was going to call her “Grandma” and that was going to be just fine with me.
Then the wedding day came. The biological grandma trucked in from Nevada and she had a small brace on one ankle. I whispered to my my husband, “Do you suppose she slipped off the pole?”
“You do know that people hear you when you whisper, right?” he said.
I was going to answer but then the ceremony started and we both had to shut the hell up.
The two grandmas, she and I, got along fine. In fact, we spent most of the day holding hands to keep from falling on our asses. It was an outdoor wedding in rural Virginia and women in heels were having trouble keeping upright on the grass. I saw one bridesmaid tumbling down a hill into a brook. They were both babbling.
What was very nice for me on that day – and since – was that my husband’s first ex-wife called me her “wife-in-law.” And our relationship has stood the test of time. We don’t talk much but when we do, it’s with affection. On the other hand, my grandson and his ex-wife didn’t part amicably. All they had given each other over their five years of marriage was irritable bowel syndrome.
Now my grandson is thirty and he’s preparing to marry again. This time, he has my whole-hearted endorsement, even if he didn’t knock his girlfriend up first. I sense that it will happen very soon because my husband’s progeny are very fertile. Every once in a rare while, one of them figures out where babies come from and how to prevent them until they’re ready to procreate. Then, watch out.
My husband was informed by his son that he was a great-grandfather when he was still in his fifties. That means I was a great-grandmother in my forties. That means I don’t want to discuss it. I don’t even know why I mentioned it. Fuggedaboutit.
I hope to see my wife-in-law at our grandson’s upcoming wedding. Perhaps we can hold each other up again.
I used to joke about waiting until I started collecting Social Security before having a baby, just to freak out my grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Yes, my husband and his offspring have been (and are) prolific, and mostly from very early ages. Sometimes, you acquire a family in untraditional ways. And I have the unique distinction of having a wife-in-law. How many people can say that?
© Copyright 2018, Mindy Littman Holland. All rights reserved.